


Spoil

by dormiensa



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Post-Reichenbach, Psychological Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-05
Updated: 2013-10-05
Packaged: 2017-12-28 12:27:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/991998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dormiensa/pseuds/dormiensa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock realizes that his is a hollow victory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spoil

The blackness had finally receded.

 

He was not aware for several more minutes, but slowly, gradually, he became cognisant that he was in his father’s old study.  Alone.

 

Subconsciously, his eyes were drawn to the one spot he did not wish to see.  There, atop the desk, was a tidy stack of papers.  Beside them, the uncapped fountain pen waited patiently.  

 

_No._

 

He couldn’t.

 

Normally, when he was angry or impatient, he paced.  But today, it seemed as if he’d been injected with a strong sedative.  He did not even have the _will_ to force his body from immobility.

 

He tilted his head to rest against the high-backed chair, not caring that the sudden, forceful move would leave a bruise.  He winced as the shift in his facial musculature painfully reminded him of the punch he’d received earlier.  Ann (it was no wonder that she frequently used false names) had been livid when he had sauntered in, ready to spring his little surprise.

 

He was in no mood to celebrate now.  He doubted he’d ever again.

 

_Why would you have kept such a secret from him?_

 

Because he was a fool.  He thought he could and would do this, accomplish this one thing, completely on his own, without interference, without help.  And he’d succeeded.  It had taken him two years, but he had comprehensively dismantled Moriarty’s vast network.  Alone. 

 

_Alone protects me._

 

 _No, Sherlock._ Friends _protect you._

 

His knuckles popped where his hands clenched the arms of the chair.

 

And he was alone, truly alone, for the first time in his life.  Even back then, when he’d had that conversation with John in the lab, a small voice at the back of his mind had contradicted him as soon as those words had left his lips.  The voice was silent now.  As was his usually, unceasingly restless brain.  There was a calmness that even the cocaine had never achieved.   

 

_He had a complete breakdown the day after, did you know?  Do you even care?_

 

Suddenly, the memories rushed him and the room became too much.  He had to get out.  His body finally woke from its stasis.  

 

He bolted. 

 

He  had no idea what paths he took or how long he ran about the extensive property.  He just kept running.  He kept running even when his calf muscles protested, when the stitch in his side became excruciating, when his laboured breathing blocked out all other noises.  He’d finally stopped when his legs collapsed under him and he fell, face-first, into the lawn.

 

_Mycroft is dead._

 

_I murdered my brother._

 

Ann had icily told him that during the brief time his brother had regained lucidity, two days prior to his suicide, he’d texted her and instructed her to have all his liquidable assets converted into a trust fund to be used to assist those brilliant minds from modest families who could not otherwise have afforded a good education.  Every school in the country was to submit the names of potential candidates to the Sherlock Holmes Trust and Ann was to personally interview each one.  Of course, Ann had set up the trust, but she’d called it the Mycroft Holmes Trust.  And she’d only used a portion of Mycroft’s vast legacy.  Because, for once, her mind had been more astute than her superior’s.  She’d seen through the ploy.  And after Molly had been informed of Mycroft’s lapse, Ann had learned about the whole plan.  It was a clever one.  But flawed.

 

So, she’d managed to hold onto the rest of Sherlock’s inheritance for safekeeping until his eventual return.  And she had secreted him into the black sedan and had him driven to his ancestral home, all the while tight-lipped.  She’d finally plopped the stack of papers on the desk for his signature, told him she would be back in three days to collect them, and left. 

 

_All lives end.  All hearts are broken.  Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock._

 

But Sherlock had always had the advantage of having a brother who did care.  Who cared so much that he’d rather evoke Sherlock’s contempt than to leave him alone. 

 

_Alone._

 

Sherlock was truly alone now.  There was no one left who understood him.  His friends—if they still considered him a friend—cared about him and would hopefully forgive him, but they didn’t and never would understand.

 

He found himself crossing the threshold into Mycroft’s room.  He curled himself into a fetal position under the covers that still bore a faint trace of the familiar scent.

 

_So, when you say you’re concerned about him, you actually are concerned._

_Yes, of course._

 

He’d pretended not to hear that exchange the night John shot the cabbie.  Oh, what he wouldn’t give to have Mycroft meddle in his life now!

 

The torrent hit. 

 

For the first time in years, his eyes stung him.  He’d not shed a tear when his father died.  He’d not shed a tear when Mycroft had gone away to school, leaving him companionless in the large, echoing house.  He’d not even shed a tear when Mummy died.  The last time he’d had tears in his eyes was at age six, when Charlie Millstone had beaten him to acquire the jar of tadpoles he’d spent an afternoon gathering from different parts of the stream.  Of course, Mycroft had come to his rescue.  It was probably the one and only time Mycroft had brawled with anyone.

 

Cocooned in his brother’s bed, Sherlock cried until exhaustion overwhelmed.

**Author's Note:**

> _Despite what happened in the story, Mycroft is actually one of my favourite characters in the books._


End file.
